Alone on the water
by Kelpie the Thundergod
Summary: Companion piece to Don't Leave My Hyper Heart Alone. "Sometimes Vash's shoulder brushes his, sometimes he looks at the side of Wolfwood's face more often, and longer, than at the horizon. Other times he goes ahead, or slightly behind. Then, there's a carefully measured distance of three feet between them."


**Alone on the water**

A/N: And now, the whole thing in reverse – this is the companion piece to **Don't leave my hyper heart alone**. Beta'ed by the wonderful **Celesma**. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer at the end of the fic**  
**

**1\. We've worn the clothes of secret lives**

He wakes one morning – early morning, always early – to find Vash fumbling away through the pockets of his black jacket.

Adrenaline born of instant panic surges through him and he freezes, then relaxes again as Vash's stomach grumbles loudly. He watches Vash for another few moments, then pointedly clears his throat. True to form, Vash promptly freezes, then smiles at Wolfwood in a typical butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth fashion. 

"Hey there, Wolfwood! Beautiful day, isn't it?" 

Wolfwood sits up, frowning. 

"Vash. What. The hell. Are you doing." 

"Uh... I, uh, was hungry?" 

Wolfwood drags a hand down his face. He can already feel the killer headache starting to form in the back of his head. He searches for his cigarettes on the side-table, finds none. Scowls, turns back to Vash. 

"And you thought there'd be food. In my jacket," he says, deadpan, which Vash apparently pretends to mistake for genuine curiosity, for he nods enthusiastically. 

"Yes! But, sadly, I have to inform you that there is none. Food, I mean. I found – " and he begins to hold up one item after another, like they are curious little discoveries that mean the world to him – "two crumpled cigarette packages – you seriously smoke too much, _seriously_ – a scratched lighter, some dust, a bit of sand, lint, and – " he turns the jacket around and inside out, points at a small pocket that has been sewn in without an opening – "and this. What is it?" 

He looks at Wolfwood with a curious, open expression. Wolfwood stares at the little pocket for a beat, then shrugs, gets up and turns around to button up his shirt and push his hand gun into the waistband of his pants. Despite having sat under his pillow all night, the barrel is cool against his skin.

"Used to put money in there. Now, there's hardly ever any money, so. I don't use it anymore." 

Vash frowns, smooths his hand – his fake hand – down the fabric. 

"But it feels like there's something in it. Something with hard edges. Coins?" 

Wolfwood still has his back to him. He picks up the Punisher, checks the magazine, sets it back down with a loud thud. 

The light is still soft, the heat not yet cruel, but already his shoulders are tense. He puts on his shades, turns around and grabs his jacket out of Vash's unresisting hands. 

"If they're still in there, they're probably useless by now. There's nothing that lasts here long without getting bullet holes all through it. You know that." 

Vash looks at him silently while he shrugs into his jacket. It feels warm where Vash touched it. Even smells different. He drags his hands down it, once, repressing a shudder. 

He feels like his flesh is being carved out through the fabric.

The Punisher settles against his back, pressing the jacket further against his skin. 

Vash has stood up, is waiting. 

Wolfwood looks back over his shoulder, feels a sudden wave of bitter sympathy. 

"Hey, you still hungry?" 

Vash smiles at him, softly, grateful, but his eyes say something different. Again, Wolfwood feels thrown by the sudden change of mood, and uneasy for being unable to make out its source, the pattern behind it. 

_Know your enemy_, an old man's voice hollers in his head. He grits his teeth.

"Yeah, I am," Vash says, calm, comes to stand in front of Wolfwood. 

Wolfwood turns around, heads towards the stairs. 

"I thought we were broke," Vash asks behind him. Voice light. 

Wolfwood shrugs. 

"Saved some bills. You know, Tongari, I'd never put my money somewhere that obvious. Only fools do that." 

Vash laughs, quietly amused for whatever reason. 

"Would be hard to find you again if I ever lost sight of you, then, I guess," he says, sounding wistful. 

Wolfwood feels his heart miss a beat, panic and adrenaline choking his throat, flooding his mouth with the taste of iron. He pushes down the sudden dread, shrugs instead, unconcerned, doesn't look at Vash. 

"What's another damnation. At least this one is in plain sight."

He ignores Vash's questioning gaze, the way he looks strangely hurt. Ignores Vash's blue eyes, his hands. Ignores the way sweat has already begun to pool at his back again, under his black jacket, on his false, traitorous skin.

**2\. The hell outside kept away (if only we could move away)**

Another day, another bullet hole in his shoulder.

It's a familiar thing, a familiar pain, one he continues to insist is "just a scratch, Vash, cut it out with the mother-henning, will you?! _God_, why did he have to take _this day_ to parade his unnerving stubbornness around, jesus balls and thank you!" 

Annoyed and weary and dirt-covered, Wolfwood finally gives in, sits down on the bed, smokes in silent disobedience. Vash scowls, sniffs in disgust, but doesn't say anything, instead chooses to tend to Wolfwood's wound in tense silence. 

Wolfwood smokes, and stares at the floor, and hisses at the right moments, and waits. 

When he's finished, Vash doesn't move away immediately. He smooths a hand down the makeshift bandage. His real hand, by the way it feels. 

"Wasn't as worse as I thought, actually. You were right, I guess," Vash says brightly. Wolfwood can _hear_ him smile. 

Wolfwood blows the smoke out through his teeth. 

"Like I said, Tongari," he drawls slowly, " 's just a scratch."

Vash doesn't say anything. 

The breeze coming through the open windows is growing cooler by the minute, but Vash's presence behind him radiates more heat than a furnace. There is the smell of dried sweat, the not-quite smell of sand, ever present, and the leather of Vash's coat. 

He has withdrawn his hand but not moved away. 

Wolfwood bites down on his cigarette, forces his muscles to relax, suppresses the shiver that threatens to run down his back, beats and beats and beats down the instinct to get up, turn around, create distance where there is none, now. 

"Wolfwood."

He crushes the cigarette out on the floor, where no one will notice a difference, and lights another, savors the first inhale. It does nothing to numb the itching of his skin sewing itself back together, nothing to stop the feeling of being trapped in his own skin. 

"I am sorry. You know." Vash doesn't touch his back again. But it feels like he does.

Wolfwood gets up, _too fast_. 

"Gonna get something to drink." 

He doesn't wait for a response. Gets down to the bar, nurses a single drink for hours. 

Vash doesn't come down.

Satisfied, Wolfwood downs the rest of the drink in one swallow – bitter, bitter fire down his throat, everything tastes bitter these days – and goes up again, lies down to wait in the last hours of dark for the next day, going through the motions with an ease like pulling the trigger on a dying man.

**3\. Butcherbirds with useless throats**

He awakes, a silent scream in his ears, and cannot see.

There's sound, but he is unable to make it out, to understand, for the blood is rushing and his heart hammering, and it's _wrong _ –

Sound rushes back in, his name, and the sensation of someone touching the skin that is, is not, his.

The gun is in his hand, and finally it feels right, it feels right. 

Two seconds altogether, and now his vision comes back, and he _sees_. 

Vash is almost glowing in the dark. He must see the weapon. But he doesn't move away, doesn't even flinch. 

Vash stares at Wolfwood, unreadable things in his eyes. 

His hands clench on the weapon, the unforgiving steel. He bites back the words that almost fight their way out of his mouth, swallows down the bile and the urge to push Vash off the bed, out the door. 

"Nick."

A hand reaching for him, through the painful haze of gold staring back at him in his head, and he – doesn't reach back. 

He flees.

He stays away for days and bites his tongue, doesn't talk to anyone, and, when he drags himself back, a silent shadow at Vash's feet, his words are adequately empty again.

**4\. That's one side one side one side**

Vash falls into step beside him.

It has happened a thousand times over, but there are intrinsic little details, differences. Sometimes Vash's shoulder brushes his, sometimes he looks at the side of Wolfwood's face more often, and longer, than at the horizon. Other times he goes ahead, or slightly behind. Then, there's a carefully measured distance of three feet between them. Three feet that are loud, that are almost screaming with the nothing that is there, the heat and thirst.

One night, when it's long since grown dark, but the heat remains stifling, they are still sitting at the run-down table in another run-down hotel, unable to lie down, to do anything. He is dozing, breathing. Then a shiver runs down his skin, and, instincts kicking in, he opens his eyes, just a sliver, and sees –

His muscles instantly lock, but he is frozen in place, pinned by Vash's gaze. 

Vash, who is sitting across from him, leaned back, his eyes pieces of silver in the dimness.

He stares back. 

Waits. 

Can't make out if Vash is even aware of him being awake.

He stares back.

Another night, Vash touches him, once.

The seconds it takes are enough to make him feel nauseous, his head instantly full to bursting with whispered screaming voices.

He lies down, tense all over, waits until the stars come out. Then, he dry-heaves in the alley outside for another half hour, something like tears choking his throat, and disbelieving anger cutting the insides of his hands.

He goes back in, silently, a shadow among dark things, and counts stars until he passes out. 

**5\. You said it was night inside my heart, it was**

His feet feel heavy. The gravel underneath crunches with the noise of breaking bones.

He pulls out a cigarette, raises it to his mouth to light it, hesitates. Puts it away again.

The Punisher feels heavier, too. He sighs – "Bad sign" – but keeps on walking anyway. It's earlier, and therefore cold. Colder than before. 

Still, the road ahead is clear.

By the time the way he came from has disappeared, the suns have risen. He comes to a stop, pulls out his shades. The dark familiar surface is scratched all over, but still absorbs all the light that touches it. He turns them in his hands, smiling softly. They looked only slightly better back then, back when he'd first met Vash.

"Give up too easy, huh?"

His hands turn to fists, just for a moment, and he's almost crushing the sunglasses, the plastic creaking. And then, just as fast, the moment is over.

He puts the shades on, continues walking straight ahead.

And then down, down. 

**Disclaimer**: I don't own Trigun. Titles inspired by the following music:

Alone on the water – "Sorrow," The National

We've worn the clothes of secret lives – "Strangers," Yoko Kanno

The hell outside kept away (if only we could move away) – "Olympic Airways," Foals

Butcherbirds with useless throats – "Electric Bloom," Foals

That's one side one side one side – "Two Steps, Twice," Foals

You said it was night inside my heart, it was – "Anyone's Ghost," The National****


End file.
